


tea (remind me it's not so bad)

by liadan14



Series: pumpkin gnocchi verse [2]
Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Modern AU, Outtake, Sickfic, Vomiting, can be read independently of chrysalis, sick!Nicky, takes place ~5 years after the earliest past section of chrysalis, the unbearable intimacy of human relationships, very briefly and not explicitly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:34:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27576578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liadan14/pseuds/liadan14
Summary: “Nicolò,” he says, chiding gently, as he sets down yet another cup of tea in front of Nicky.Nicky shakes his head, wincing. “No more tea,” he groans.“Please just lie down,” Joe begs.In which Nicky is sick and Joe is worried.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Series: pumpkin gnocchi verse [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2015747
Comments: 32
Kudos: 705





	tea (remind me it's not so bad)

At first, Joe thinks it‘s just the stress getting to Nicky.

He’s a month off from defending his Ph. D., and instead of taking a moment to celebrate having handed the damn thing in, he had immediately sunk into preparation for the defense. 

It’s rough going.

When Nicky had said, at the start of his Ph. D., that he was going to write his thesis on the history of pedophilia in the Catholic church, Joe had been skeptical at best. He had known, of course, that it was a topic that was at the heart of Nicky’s own conflict with religion, and with God, and that Nicky needed to do this to find his way back to some sort of belief. Joe had just been worried it would hurt him to dive deeply into all the ways his heritage had disappointed him for three full years.

“I could make a difference in all that pain,” Nicky had argued when Joe had said as much. “That’s all I want – for things to change.”

Joe had kissed him, because what else was he to do?

On the whole, the three years had been fine. There had been moments when Nicky had emerged from a research hole, sadder and quieter than he had been before. Joe, in student teaching placements, had come home exhausted more often than not, and sometimes they had just not been able to find the wherewithal to comfort each other. There had also been moments when they had each returned from their work filled with joy.

Still, Joe had been looking forward to this time: Nicky, finally finished, finally ready to figure out where they would end up next, Joe, finally finished with his training as a teacher, ready to earn a full salary. 

Only now Nicky was hunched over his laptop, preparing for an event that was four weeks away and was, as far as Joe understood, mostly a formality anyway, clenching his teeth in pain.

“Nicolò,” he says, chiding gently, as he sets down yet another cup of tea in front of Nicky.

Nicky shakes his head, wincing. “No more tea,” he groans.

“Please just lie down,” Joe begs.

“One more page,” Nicky argues. “I’ve almost got done with rereading this article.”

“And how much of it do you remember?”

Nicky doesn’t answer, which is answer enough.

It takes him another half-hour to get through the last page of the article. English isn’t his first or best language, and it’s been a frequent struggle to get through English academic writing, even when he’s not totally distracted by the fact that he’s clearly sick and miserable.

Joe goes and hides in bed, pretending to read the novel he hasn’t gotten around to for weeks because they’ve both been so busy. 

They still share his one-bedroom apartment with the half-hidden bed and the nice kitchen in the middle of London. It should be too small for two people, but for all it’s a small apartment, it’s cut well and it’s comfortable; even after almost five years together, they don’t get sick of sharing each other’s space. Besides, it’s a good way to save money for whatever comes next.

Joe’s heartbeat picks up when he hears the scrape of Nicky’s chair, finally gotten up from the table that used to be a dining room table before they both got so busy and is now in essence their office. He sets aside his book, he wasn’t going to read it anyway. Any minute now, he expects Nicky to come to bed, to lie down, to let Joe pet his hair and make him feel better.

Instead, he hears the bathroom door bang open and the unmistakable sound of Nicky throwing up violently.

He’s on his feet immediately, in the bathroom door in seconds, but once there, he doesn’t know what to do.

Nicky’s on his knees in front of the toilet, one hand limply on the flush. He spits into the toilet bowl again as the water swirls around, flushing whatever just came out. Joe can’t imagine it being much, Nicky hasn’t eaten all day.

“Love,” Joe says, coming to sit beside Nicky on the rim of the bathtub. “Nicky. Do you feel any better?”

Wordlessly, Nicky shakes his head.

Joe rests a hand on his forehead. “You’re burning up.”

“It’s probably just a stomach bug,” Nicky says, more to the toilet than to Joe. He heaves twice more, but nothing comes up.

Joe can’t quite help his forehead furrowing in worry. 

“Will you come to bed now?” He asks. “I can make you more tea.”

“Don’t think I could keep it down,” Nicky confesses, words slurred. At some point today, they had switched entirely to Italian. Normally, when he’s studying, Nicky speaks English, because it’s easier to keep track of his reading and writing then, but he had a hard time stringing together sentences today.

It should have been a sign.

“Then at least lie down,” Joe says. 

Nicky nods, and winces at the movement. He drags himself to his feet slowly.

Joe gets the bucket they use for cleaning out from under the sink, just in case, and follows hot on his heels, but even that is too late – Nicky’s legs give out by the sofa and he falls to the ground.

Later, Joe will remember that he is by Nicky’s side instantly, he will remember that Nicky is still conscious, but his eyes are fever-hazy and his voice is just a whimper when he says, “Joe, it hurts so much,” hand clutched weakly over his lower stomach. He will remember puzzle pieces slotting into place, he will remember that he has no fucking idea where he put his phone and he will remember searching for it for long agonizing moments.

In the hospital waiting room, he can’t shake the thought that those moments could cost Nicky his life.

Andy’s sprawled across from him on the hospital waiting room chairs, somehow angling her legs to spread out without constantly banging them against the arm rests between chairs. Quynh, too antsy to stay still, went to get them coffee.

Joe can’t stop tapping his foot. He’s driving himself crazy.

“He’s going to be fine,” Andy says patiently. “It’s what, the second, third-most routine surgery on the planet?”

Joe doesn’t answer.

“ _Joe_ ," Andy groans. 

“I know, alright?” Joe hisses, leaning back digging the heels of his hands into his eyes. 

He had to fill out all the forms for Nicky. Nicky keeps an organ donor card in his wallet with his NHS number on it, and that had been in the pocket of Nicky’s sweatpants. Everything else, Joe had filled out from memory. The attending nurse had asked, kindly, if he wanted to call Nicky’s family, and he had only been able to shake his head. It had been Quynh, arriving just as Nicky was wheeled away to surgery, breathless and terrified, who had said, “We’re his family.”

“I should have been faster,” Joe says. “I should have—”

“You got him here,” Andy says calmly. “There’s nothing else you could have done.”

Joe can think of twenty-six things he should have done. Taken Nicky to A&E this morning, when he was in too much pain to consider touching his coffee. Called his brother Ibrahim, who is a doctor, for advice. Anything but enable Nicky’s continued pain.

It’s three in the morning before they say Nicky’s out of surgery.

“It was close,” the doctor says. He’s very young, and maybe that’s why he doesn’t yet know his words are not a comfort. “The appendix burst in my hands. You got him here just in time.”

Nicky is, of course, still asleep.

Normally, it’s Nicky who can’t sleep, Nicky who rises early, Nicky who keeps watch over Joe at night.

Joe hates the reversal, Nicky pale and quiet in drugged sleep, attached to a saline drip.

He should be relieved, now, that it’s over. The doctor says Nicky will be fine, with plenty of rest. He should feel better.

Andy and Quynh leave, once they’re sure Nicky will be alright. They promise to come back in the morning with a change of clothes for both of them, with breakfast.

He can’t stop crying.

It’s not even sobbing, he might feel better if he could exorcise this feeling from his chest with a true bout of sadness. No, it’s just anxiety and fear and frustration leaking from his eyes in increments where he has no control of it.

Joe ought to leave as well, but no one has kicked him out yet, so he stays, rapt, by Nicky’s bedside, watching the rise and fall of his chest each time he gets too scared.

When Nicky does wake, he’s slow and disoriented. Usually, when Nicky’s awake, he’s awake. He can fuck around on his phone for another half hour or so while Joe snuggles into him and dozes, but eventually, he gets frustrated and has to get up. Today, he blinks hazily for long, soft minutes, while Joe’s heart flutters in his throat.

“Joe?” Nicky asks hoarsely when he’s gathered his bearings.

“I’m here,” Joe says.

“So far away,” Nicky complains.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Joe says carefully. “How do you feel?”

“Need to pee.”

Joe waits outside while the nurse does her job with the bedpan.

When he gets back in, Nicky starts to ask him what happened, but he falls asleep again mid-question.

Because Nicky is young and healthy, he’s released from hospital later the same day, with strict instructions to rest for at least a week and to come straight back if there’s any sign of infection, a sentence which causes Joe’s heart to seize in his chest.

He has been very stupid to not consider a world full of danger and the brevity of human life.

Once, in the sacred darkness of their bed, Nicky had told Joe he hadn’t understood how vulnerable he would truly become, by falling in love with Joe, until Joe had shown him what it meant to allow someone else to hurt you. Joe had treasured the rare moment of poetry on Nicky’s lips, but he thinks that maybe he didn’t understand, until right this moment, what power Nicky holds over him. He didn’t know, until right now, how much losing Nicky would hurt him, too caught up in the joy of having him.

Instead, he keeps himself busy, washing the clothes they’d been to hospital in, making broth for Nicky, calling the University so they would know Nicky wouldn’t be there to teach classes tomorrow.

By evening, Nicky is cognizant enough to have noticed.

“You’re angry at me,” he says, when Joe brings him a new round of soup and tea.

“Yes,” Joe says, because, abruptly, he is. Or perhaps he has been all along and Nicky had to say it to bring it into focus.

“I’m sorry,” Nicky offers, but it does little good when neither of them know what for.

Joe sits down heavily on his side of the bed, rubbing his palms up and down his thighs.

“You nearly died,” Joe says abruptly. “Your appendix ruptured as soon as they took it out.”

Nicky doesn’t say anything, and Joe isn’t looking at him, because if he does, he’ll see Nicky’s sweet eyes and sweeter mouth and he’ll forget whatever it is he’s trying to say here. 

“You were so sick,” Joe says, “and I did _nothing_.”

“Joe,” Nicky chides.

“I should have taken you to hospital sooner. I should have made you stop working, I should have—”

“Joe, you tried,” Nicky says gently. “I was just too stubborn to listen, remember?”

“Yes!” Joe bursts out frantically, turning to stare at Nicky, still pale and fragile under the bedsheets. “Yes, Nicky, I remember! I remember trying to get you to bed, to get you to rest, and you wouldn’t fucking listen, and then you nearly _died_ \--”

“I’m sorry,” Nicky says again, and he means it just as much as he did moments ago, but this time Joe can hear it. “I’m sorry, darling, come here?”

Joe comes there. What else is he to do? He rests his forehead against Nicky’s broad shoulder, curls his body as close as he can without jostling Nicky, still in his jeans and his house shoes, above the covers while Nicky is under them.

“I’m sorry I scared you,” Nicky says, running a hand up Joe’s back.

“Be sorry you didn’t take better care of yourself,” Joe says, muffled into the fabric of Nicky’s sweatshirt. “I want – I couldn’t, not without you, you have to—”

The rest of what he means comes out in jumbled half-sentences, because he can’t think of the words he wants in Italian right now and he’s not even sure what they would be in English or Dutch or Arabic at this point. He wants Nicky to never be hurt. He wants Nicky to stay with him forever, but now isn’t the right time to ask for that. He wants to not have to think about what life might be like without Nicky.

He realizes, over the mess of words and thoughts trapped in his head, that Nicky is shushing him gently, stroking over his back and his hair and his shoulders. It’s ridiculous, that this man can make him so scared, so angry, and still be the only one who can comfort him. Joe burrows closer to him.

“I should be taking care of you,” Joe mumbles. “You’re sick.”

“You’re hurting,” Nicky responds. “And it’s my fault. Let me fix it.”

Joe only realizes he’s been crying when he stops. 

“Take care of yourself,” Joe pleads, resting his chin on Nicky’s shoulder. “For me, if not for you.”

“Always,” Nicky promises, and his eyes are true and his mouth is sweet, so Joe kisses him and falls asleep against his shoulder.

**Author's Note:**

> I am working on that sequel to chrysalis, I promise. It's taking me a really long time to get it right. Have an outtake for now.
> 
> I did recently pass 500 followers on [tumblr](http://bewires.tumblr.com) and opened up prompts for that, though. This is a response to two prompts from there: 
> 
> _would you consider something where mortal Nicky gets very, very sick and Joe takes care of him while worrying terribly?_  
>  and  
>  _could I possibly prompt you h/c with Joe/Nicky? I'm FASCINATED with scenarios in which one of them thinks the other might be dead and how they react. but less traumatic h/c would also be great, whatever you wanna do if you end up tackling this!_
> 
> The title is a play on Dido's _Thankyou_


End file.
